


made a map of your stars

by troiing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Porn with Feelings, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24178834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: Yennefer decides, after a scant few moments, that there is a spell in play; it takes a little longer to decide that the spell is held too closely and too steady in its energy to be anything other than illusion magic. And magic concentrated so close to Tissaia’s person is in no way affecting the room at large, or even something about the room. This is no spell to make inadequate chambers appear more sumptuous. This is Tissaia: her body, her being.For the Bad Things Happen BINGO: hidden scars
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 49
Kudos: 225
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	made a map of your stars

**Author's Note:**

> This falls in line with canon past events in "stone in your water," but is, shall we say, exploring alternate future events for Yennefer and Tissaia in that universe. Just... Basically accept what is written in Stone as canon history here, basically.
> 
> If you haven't read chapter 7 of "stone in your water"... You might find yourself a bit confused?
> 
> Many thanks to my delightful beta batard_loaf aka miri aka justplainsalty on tumblr.
> 
> Most of the editing process was done on mobile, and many will attest to my inability to type on a touchscreen. I have thoroughly read everything over, but please excuse any bizarre typos I may have missed in the final, post-beta editing stages.

Every once in a while, Yennefer finds a situation in which her penchant for rushing into things head first and at full speed is best left behind.

Baring every inch of Tissaia’s pale skin for her perusal is one such instance.

She’ll admit, she’d gone in strong, all rough kisses and searching hands, and Tissaia had matched her, kiss for kiss and touch for touch. Until it had come to removing her absurdly overcomplicated gown, that is. Wrestling with it had gotten her nowhere but _frustrated_. _‘Slow down,’_ Tissaia had warned, breath a gust against her neck, fingers floating across Yennefer’s back.

And indeed, only a slower, methodical approach had sufficed—one clasp at a time, undone by careful, slightly fumbling fingers that grew more confident as the task went on. Patience. It had been something of an arduous process, but worth it now. Worth it, as Tissaia’s deft hands work blindly to peel Yennefer slowly out of her own dress; worth it, as Yennefer backs Tissaia into the bed, where she stretches out languorously and reaches out to guide Yennefer to her.

Funny how that works, Yennefer thinks as she lowers herself to all fours over Tissaia’s body and Tissaia’s lips find her throat, her pace so much slower, her touch warmer, fingers tickling at the nape of her neck. Tissaia steadies her, in a way. Slows her down, calms the seething tides of her. Even in this, and in ways unanticipated. Oh, she riles her up just as often, challenges her endlessly, but in the end, for all that her emotions run equally deep and wide, Tissaia’s measured control is quiet, still water to Yennefer’s stormy seas. 

She pulls back, glancing down Tissaia’s body, and Tissaia uses the moment of distance to shift, manoeuvring herself back towards the pillows. In doing so, Yennefer is granted an impossible view of the length of her, and she groans quietly, perched on her knees on the edge of the bed, stock still as if paralysed. 

Tissaia is, in a word, magnificent; there’s really nothing else to say for it.

“Yennefer?”

She doesn’t know how long she’s been staring, only that there’s something bordering on concern in Tissaia’s voice. She focuses, peering up into Tissaia’s face to find her perched on an elbow, brows knit slightly. Yennefer wants to kiss away the faint lines between her brows, and really, she thinks that ought to be a bit alarming, but it isn’t.

“You’re… _fuck._ ”

“Language.”

Her voice is stern, but there’s a barely discernible smirk tugging at the left side of her lips. Yennefer suspects that most would not notice, given the (frankly misleading) natural upturn to the corners of her mouth, but she has grown accustomed to reading Tissaia’s moods in a way she doubts most anyone else has. (If she preens a little at this, well, it's probably deserved.)

Tissaia bends a knee, gazing evenly down the bed at her, and that unspoken invitation is the impetus Yennefer needs to move again.

Her hand trails up the outside of Tissaia’s calf; her lips brush across Tissaia’s bent knee. From there, she makes her way swiftly up Tissaia’s body: settles one leg between Tissaia’s knees, the other along her hip, and nuzzles into her neck to kiss her pulse point.

For a woman so tense, so buttoned-up, in the day-to-day, Tissaia is surprisingly, marvelously yielding beneath her body; she hums a single note of pleasure, fingers finding the nape of Yennefer’s neck again and holding fast as her free hand strokes lightly up Yennefer’s arm, to her shoulder, and down along her side.

Yennefer _likes_ that noise, so she shifts her kisses a little further down Tissaia’s throat, letting her teeth scrape a delicate path across the tendons of her neck before sucking a bruise into being. Short nails dig slightly into her ribs, and the hum becomes a moan, strained as Tissaia arches slightly into her. She sighs, settles, and Yennefer nips at her collarbone as she makes her way down to the valley between Tissaia’s breasts, teeth and lips and tongue traversing delicate paths along her pale flesh.

But there’s something… wrong. No, no, not wrong, but not _right_ either. Yennefer settles her nose against Tissaia’s breastbone, lowers a slow, lingering kiss to the base of her ribs, closes her eyes, and _breathes_.

“Tissaia?”

“Mm.”

Tissaia’s leg moves restlessly along her side, but Yennefer only frowns, raising up to her elbows and peering thoughtfully up at her. At first, Tissaia seems puzzled. And then, as if some realisation has struck her, she schools her expression into something careful and unreadable. 

Something niggles at the edges of Yennefer’s consciousness, centered in Tissaia’s being.

Yennefer has grown accustomed to the feel of Tissaia’s magic, the particular spark that is _her_ will, enacted upon the Chaos around her. And Chaos has been crackling like static around them since before their bodies brushed, before they kissed, long before Tissaia’s nimble fingers went to work at the ties of Yennefer’s dress. But this is different—this is not the workings of Chaos ambient in the room, shifting with their thoughts and feelings and will; Tissaia’s change in demeanor is enough to tell her that. This is something purposeful, pointed. Yennefer wets her lips, watching Tissaia for any signs that might point her in the right direction, but aside from the fingers toying with the hair at her nape and slightly elevated breathing, Tissaia is motionless and stoic.

She decides, after a scant few moments, that there is a spell in play; it takes a little longer, a long enough span that her shoulders ache from propping herself up in this position without moving, to decide that the spell is held too closely to Tissaia’s chest and too steady in its energy to be anything other than illusion magic.

Whatever _that_ means.

She could let this annoy her—could even choose outright anger. But she is learning, little by little. She and Tissaia will probably always be sniping at each other for one thing or another, and even without that, Yennefer is beginning to accept that Tissaia is _old_. Eight decades have worked on Yennefer in a number of ways; she still does not know just how old Tissaia is, but she knows that whatever her age, the centuries have had their sway. So she too schools her expression and her emotions, breathing deeply and focusing on the admittedly somewhat amusing fact that she is naked in bed with _the_ Tissaia de Vries, who apparently has something to be self-conscious about. Because magic concentrated so close to Tissaia’s person is in no way affecting the room at large, or even something about the room. This is no spell to make inadequate chambers appear more sumptuous. This is Tissaia: her body, her being. 

Yennefer leans slowly forward to press a careful kiss to Tissaia’s sternum. Tissaia’s breath hitches, but her expression reveals nothing.

Yennefer isn’t quite sure how to approach this problem, so she settles for what she knows best, after anger: she summons a wry tone, arching a brow as she tilts her face up, resting her chin against Tissaia’s chest. “You know, I like your tits just fine,” she drawls. Because it seems like the sort of thing to say. And because Tissaia is amazing, and her breasts are amazing, and because Yennefer is so smitten with the woman beneath her that at this point her _looks_ are probably more or less irrelevant.

Puzzlement blooms across Tissaia’s face, her brows knitting together again and her lips tugging slightly downward. “Pardon?”

“I mean, it seems I don’t know what they actually look like, but I’m sure they’re lovely, no matter how small they are, so you can stop fucking around.”

Tissaia makes a strangled noise and drops her hands from Yennefer’s body, appearing altogether incensed by the accusation. “I am _not_ altering the appearance of my _breasts_ ,” she says, the last word pitched a bit higher than Yennefer has ever heard her voice.

Something about having Tissaia so thoroughly riled up overrides every modicum of frustration Yennefer could feel about the situation. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, then?” she says expectantly, lips twitching and eyebrows raised as she gazes down at an indignant Tissaia. 

Tissaia’s eyes find hers; she exhales forcefully. For a long moment, they appear to be in a stalemate. Then, slowly, she raises her hands slightly, expression softening. It is a clear sign of surrender if Yennefer has ever seen one, and she wonders at how she’s come by it so easily.

A thought comes to her, and the too-easy victory is forgotten within a few heartbeats. “Wait,” she says, rocking her weight back unsteadily onto her elbows and awkwardly taking hold of Tissaia’s arms. Tissaia pauses, the puzzled look returning to her face, and Yennefer uses the moment of stillness to push herself up to her knees, straddling Tissaia’s hips and pressing her hands easily back down to the bed. “I’ll figure it out.”

Which is very likely the stupidest thing she has ever said, not only because illusion magic was never her bread and butter, but because Tissaia is so much more powerful than her, the suggestion is actually a bit laughable.

But let it never be said Yennefer doesn’t like a challenge.

“You won’t,” Tissaia says bluntly, and to be honest, that only fuels the fire.

“ _Watch me_ ,” Yennefer challenges, with confidence even she knows is horribly misplaced.

The task is, of course, difficult in more ways than one. Not least of all because Tissaia’s naked body is quite a new thing, and because Tissaia’s breathing is still slightly elevated, making her chest rise and fall in a somewhat unsteady rhythm. Yennefer presses her lips into a thin line, gazing resolutely down at Tissaia as she concentrates. She releases Tissaia's hands after a few moments, straightening her back and resting her palms against her thighs as she tries to force herself to look _through_ the spell rather than _at_ Tissaia. She screws up her face and unfocuses her gaze; in that, she _thinks_ she can almost see the rippling of magic, but it tells her nothing. The expanse of flesh beneath her remains marble white, unmarked by even a freckle; her narrow ribcage meets the curve of a narrower waist, meets the swell of broad hips; the flat plain of her stomach is perfectly soft and perfectly tempting; lying on her back, the valley between her breasts is wide and shallow, sloping gently up and out.

She gains nothing from the effort, except perhaps an incredible excuse to stare at Tissaia’s naked body for an inexcusably long span and itching palms for lack of _touching_ her, and when she finally glances back up at Tissaia’s face, the hunger has left the other woman’s eyes and is replaced with a very slightly amused, but mostly _nervous_ sort of challenge.

It is peculiar, and Yennefer hesitates to speak. But she does not need to repeat the earlier request, because Tissaia lifts her hands again, a single brow arching upward as she searches Yennefer’s face.

“May I release the spell now?”

Something about the way she asks is utterly disarming; it makes Yennefer cede all control, gaze dropping from Tissaia’s face to her hands and then back up again, searching. 

“Only if you want to,” she says after a moment, almost a whisper.

Tissaia’s expression softens, brows furrowing with emotion as if something has released in her. She touches Yennefer's knee gently, fingertips just brushing Yennefer's. The touch is warm and tender, and carries a meaning Yennefer cannot quite place.

“My dear,” Tissaia murmurs, all of her impossibly gentle and suddenly much more certain again, “the spell is habit only; it was never meant for you.”

The warmth of it clenches in Yennefer’s chest, and she nods once, fingers briefly lifting to return Tissaia’s touch before the other woman withdraws, hands curling into fists momentarily, then releasing; the illusion spell flickers and fades away.

Yennefer does not know what she expected to learn from this, if anything. But as the magic fades, her eyes track down to Tissaia’s body again, and her breath catches, a strangled complaint forming in her throat as the pale expanse of unadulterated, pristine flesh yields to manifold faint, swirling scars. Burn scars, long-healed, to the best of the combined ability of magic and the human body—she knows this without asking, although their presence is a mystery. 

Unconsciously, she moves off of Tissaia’s body, searching the length of her with the breath still and stale in her lungs. Tissaia bears this without comment or complaint for a long span, until suddenly her hand lights on Yennefer’s arm and she murmurs: “ _Breathe_.”

Yennefer’s gaze flies back to Tissaia’s face, only to find a distant smile curling at her lips, mirthless but tender. “The _Enchantment_ that you know did not exist when I was your age,” she says softly, answering the question Yennefer cannot quite find it within herself to ask. “There was no Giltine, nor his predecessor. And healing is… difficult. Finicky. My healers began with my hands, then my face, my feet. They prioritised what I needed most.”

While she speaks, Yennefer finds her eyes drawn back to Tissaia’s body again, to the patterns strewn haphazardly across her skin—some impossibly pale and shining, a few others dark and angry after all this time, and still more tinged red or purple like pale bruises, barely noticeable except for their size. She reaches out to touch, tracing her fingers down an arc of red just below her ribs, finding the skin perfectly smooth and soft to the touch, as if merely stained by the palest of pigments. She follows the winding scars to another, this one bright-white. It is no wider than Yennefer’s first two fingers together, and half as long, but the elasticity of the skin there is gone, the ultra-fine, almost invisible hairs present on the surrounding flesh notably absent.

“We are stubborn and hardy creatures,” Tissaia says distantly as Yennefer smoothes the pad of her thumb across the shining white scar. “My body began to heal itself, and as you know, healing magic can do little to mend what is not broken. While magic ultimately undid most of the damage, these remain—a testament to the tenacity of a young woman’s body, if you will.”

Yennefer does not respond, for she can think of nothing to say. Instead, she lowers herself, pressing a soft kiss to the pale scar on Tissaia’s belly. The muscles beneath her lips contract, and then settle, a slightly shaky breath leaving Tissaia’s frame deflated and yielding. Her lips begin to traverse a path similar to the one her fingers traced moments ago, following the tangled patterns of the various scars along Tissaia’s body slowly, in measured movements, with neither hunger nor urgency, but with very definite _purpose_. It feels somehow vital that she touches each one, that she knows each mark. Yennefer does not consider herself sentimental on the best of days, but she craves this, needs it, aches for it.

After a scant few moments, however, she finds herself wondering if it is what _Tissaia_ wants.

As her lips crest the ridge of Tissaia’s ribs, she chances a glance up at the other woman’s face; Tissaia’s eyes are shut, her brow furrowed slightly, lips parted as she breathes. 

“Tissaia?”

A sigh. “Yes?”

Yennefer swallows, nudges Tissaia’s chest softly with her nose. “Is this okay?”

Tissaia chuckles quietly, eyes still closed, hand blindly searching out Yennefer’s arm. She squeezes her shoulder slightly with a quiet hum. “I’ll let you know if it isn’t.”

Yennefer needs no more assurance than that.

The next curl of scarring rests just above the swell of her breast; another swirls along her bicep (the worst of the scars favour her right side, Yennefer notes). She forges a path through the tangled web of old burns, down Tissaia’s arm to her hip and then to her thigh. Her hand skims down Tissaia’s leg, finds a rough patch on the outside of her knee. Her mouth again chases the path that her fingers have already travelled. When she tugs at Tissaia’s leg, she sees Tissaia’s eyes flutter open in her periphery; she hesitates for only a moment before twisting at the hip, baring the outside of her leg to Yennefer’s kisses. She traces the back of Tissaia’s thigh and on up again. The swell of her backside, the bend of her hip. Now that the flesh is more accessible, Yennefer takes the opportunity to kiss her side where a knot of angry red twists around her waist.

Satisfied with her exploration for now, she drags herself up the bed to bury herself in the crook of Tissaia’s neck, but before she manages it her eyes catch on Tissaia’s, and her heart stumbles. Tissaia’s pupils are blown, her face flushed. It seems she has been allowing this exploration for Yennefer's benefit. The eroticism of the situation does not pass Yennefer’s notice, but the effect on Tissaia has been rather more acute. Yennefer watches her for a beat, her own belly warming with desire at the darkness in Tissaia’s gaze.

Fuck.

Tissaia’s nostrils flare as she bends an arm, canting her elbow to the side to brush her fingers across Yennefer’s clavicle. “Satisfied?” she husks. Yennefer swallows, watching Tissaia watch her mouth.

In lieu of an answer, Yennefer surges forward again, capturing Tissaia’s lips in a hungry kiss.

Yennefer shifts, balancing on both elbows over Tissaia’s body again, and is vaguely aware that Tissaia is also moving, manoeuvering herself so that Yennefer is between her legs, knees bent up alongside her body. And then, in a movement that catches Yennefer off-guard, she bucks her hips, sending Yennefer tumbling sideways.

It’s instinctive when she resists the movement, trying to pin Tissaia down again; but she is off-balance, and she can’t quite find her center before they both fall to their sides facing each other, all tangled limbs and warm bodies.

Yennefer breaks first. She can’t help it; the look of surprise on Tissaia’s face is too much. She laughs brightly, and Tissaia’s expression morphs from shock to pouting annoyance, and finally amusement as a chuckle rocks out of her. She shakes her head, nipping gently at Yennefer’s shoulder as if to remind her what they are here for.

As if Yennefer needs reminding.

“Stubborn,” Tissaia growls, tongue flitting against Yennefer’s jugular notch, making her whimper slightly in response. Tissaia's thoughts open up just enough that Yennefer has the distinct sensation that Tissaia was all but poised to devour her until a few breaths ago. She resists the flush warmth that floods her, but her cheeks must darken because Tissaia suddenly looks much too pleased with herself. 

“Control freak,” she shoots right back, curling her arm around Tissaia’s side and pulling their bodies flush.

Tissaia growls a wordless response and hooks a heel behind Yennefer’s leg, dragging her closer, until Yennefer's thigh rests between her legs. Before Yennefer has wholly realised her aim, Tissaia’s hips roll forward and Yennefer’s forced to hold back a groan. Gods, Tissaia’s _wet_. If she is trying to make a point, that singular gesture makes it rather spectacularly. Desire fires through Yennefer’s body, pooling at her core. Tissaia stills after the first thrust though, and Yennefer takes this as a wordless request for permission, so, not quite trusting her voice in the moment, she leans her brow against Tissaia’s and sends a single thought out on a thread of Chaos:

_‘Yes.’_

Tissaia hums, a pleased, and somewhat feral sound. Again, Yennefer senses a thought entirely too abstract to interpret, except that something about it feels absolutely _torrid_. While Yennefer tries distractedly to glean a little more from Tissaia's thoughts without pushing her way into the woman's mind outright (which would be not only rude, but fruitless), Tissaia loops her arm securely beneath Yennefer's for leverage, and begins rocking her hips steadily, grinding against Yennefer's thigh.

And gods, it's so much—the sight and feel of Tissaia like _this_ , eyes fluttering shut, lower lip caught between her teeth, Yennefer's thigh pressed against the slick heat of her. Yennefer leans in, letting Tissaia's weight fall against her arm and her leg press nearer to Tissaia's core. Tissaia _mewls_ and the fire in Yennefer's belly spills over, makes her desperate in a way she's unfamiliar with. Fuck. _Fuck._ She buries her face in Tissaia's neck, eyes clenched shut against the heat of her own arousal, breathing Tissaia in, holding fast to her.

She's both watched and participated in many, many intriguing and exotic sexual acts, but she's certain nothing in the world is quite like this. Not when it's Tissaia rutting against her, her whole body trembling as she breathes shakily. It would be so easy to alter their positions a little, to let both of them come like this. Yennefer usually needs at least a little penetration to finish the job, but she's fairly certain she'd be just fine here and now. She is also certain, however, that she wants to enjoy every second of _this_ Tissaia, whose movements are becoming sharper and more pronounced, a shiver raking through her at the peak of each thrust as her abdominal muscles engage.

“Yennefer,” she moans, an unspoken request for something _more._ And, well, Yennefer supposes that's only fair, given that Tissaia is doing all the work.

Tissaia makes no move to alter their positions though, and she isn't exactly providing a whole lot of guidance, so Yennefer greets her collarbone with a hungry nip before curling her back, trailing a few wet kisses back down to Tissaia's breast. “You're so beautiful,” she growls into Tissaia's chest, and Tissaia hisses a breath. 

In response, Yennefer laves her tongue across Tissaia's pert nipple. The strained noise she makes is intoxicating.

 _‘Do you like this?’_ she asks silently, half teasing, half genuinely looking for guidance, as she cranes her neck to attend to Tissaia's other breast, sucking the nipple into her mouth.

_‘A little messy, if you must know.’_

Which is probably fair, because Yennefer is possibly drooling a bit. Maybe. Who wouldn't? And if Tissaia thinks sex somehow _isn't_ messy, while she's lying here rubbing all over Yennefer like—

_‘There's still no call to salivate all over a woman like a dog.’_

“You can fuck right out of my head,” Yennefer growls without malice, nipping carefully at Tissaia's areola and trying not to betray too much smugness when Tissaia yelps. (And maybe, just maybe, a fresh wave of wet heat meets Yennefer's thigh, which is incredibly arousing, as far as Yennefer is concerned.)

 _‘You think too loudly,’_ Tissaia retorts, tangling her fingers in Yennefer's hair and giving a quick tug.

Oh, she definitely needs to get Tissaia off.

Yennefer's never been terribly imaginative when it comes to artistic endeavors or picking shapes out of clouds, but there's a scar on Tissaia's breast that looks something like a bird in flight, and Yennefer closes her lips over the patch of too-thick skin, unconsciously reacting to the roll of Tissaia's hips with a buck of her own. She closes her eyes tightly, forcing herself to still, because this is Tissaia. Yennefer is enjoying herself too much right now to try to bring her own pleasure into the equation, regardless of how simple it would be to press Tissaia onto her back, to free up her other leg, to—

Tissaia makes a frustrated noise. Her movements are broader, her back arching away before each thrust, and her shaking has become ever more obvious, though she doesn't really seem that much closer to release.

She wonders if Tissaia likes to be ordered to come.

Granted, _commanding_ the woman doesn't feel particularly right at the moment, but maybe if she asks nicely? In the end, Yennefer wants it as badly as Tissaia does, so she sucks at that spot on Tissaia's heaving breast for just a moment longer before straightening her back and flicking her tongue against Tissaia's earlobe.

“Come for me,” she invites, stretching out the fingers of the hand pinned behind Tissaia's back to tangle them in her long, now-unruly plait. “I want to see you, feel you… Come for me and let me hear you.” She almost begs it, echoes it on a thought and feels Tissaia latch onto it with scrabbling hands. _‘Come. Come, fuck, Tissaia, come for me. Let go.’_

A sobbing sound cracks in Tissaia's throat as her hips jerk erratically, and then all of her arcs, her heel digging into the back of Yennefer's knee before her leg twines tight around Yennefer's thigh, her scapula driving into Yennefer's arm. Her lips are parted, the white of her teeth showing, but she doesn't make another sound, not aloud nor in the tenuous mental connection between them, not until she collapses back against Yennefer's arm again with a shuddering gasp so long it might be her first breath.

And fuck if that isn't the most erotic thing Yennefer has ever experienced. She doesn't even mind that Tissaia didn't so much as scream her name once—or at least, she'll get over it in short order. For the moment, she just nestles into Tissaia's neck again, where she can feel the racing pulse against her cheek, the shifting tendons. The slight wheeze of her breaths. The slow unwinding of tense muscles as she relaxes again into the bedding and Yennefer's arms.

“Yennefer,” she sighs belatedly, voice cracked.

Yennefer draws back, nuzzling briefly at Tissaia's jaw as she disengages her leg from between Tissaia's still-quivering thighs, and her tingling arm from beneath Tissaia's back. “You're amazing,” she says, half-teasing but all sincere, eyes locked with Tissaia's while the other woman settles wearily onto her side again, shifting to find a more comfortable position.

“Thank you,” Tissaia replies simply.

Yennefer laughs, because few women have that kind of confidence. They're well matched, in that regard. Yennefer is still coming to terms with the fact that they are alike in more ways than not. 

“And thank you for the use of your leg,” Tissaia adds a moment later. She's clearly in a bantering mood, and the nature of the joke catches Yennefer so far off her guard that she barely notices Tissaia tugging on Yennefer's leg again—not until Tissaia's knee rests between her thighs, the cool air of the room meeting the searing heat at her centre.

She stifles a moan at the feeling, and Tissaia arches a brow, looking incredibly pleased with herself.

“You, Tissaia de Vries, may use me as a prop any time you like,” Yennefer husks, trying to throw Tissaia off balance but failing rather spectacularly by all appearances.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Tissaia replies with her lips twisted into a tiny smirk that Yennefer would very much like to kiss away.

When Tissaia's fingertips graze against her, Yennefer sees stars; her hips buck once more, body reacting without her brain's permission.

“Fuck.”

“We really need to work on your language,” Tissaia murmurs, a glint in her eye as two fingers slip between her folds, tracing up along her labia to her clit in a movement so slow and intentional Yennefer _whines._

“Apologies, Archmistress,” Yennefer replies once she's able, the mocking tone somewhat ruined by the pitchy breath Tissaia's barest touch elicits. “It's so easy to forget your station when you have such fascinating proclivities in bed.”

“You have a reputation for interesting proclivities of your own,” Tissaia remarks. “I know this was all for me”—her fingers continue their frictionless path along Yennefer's labia until her palm comes to rest firmly on her mons, a single finger teasing delicately at her swollen folds—"but how would you like to do this yourself?”

“Oh,” Yennefer says, a gusty half-laugh all she can manage in reply to the suggestion. “I could, and I would enjoy myself _immensely_ with you watching. _But._ ” She pauses, leaning in until her lips just barely brush Tissaia's as she speaks. “What I would like right now, more than anything in the world, is for you to put your fingers inside me and _fuck_ me.”

For all that Tissaia often gives the impression of being a little too modest for such talk, not even a hint of pink dares to grace her cheeks at the crassness of the profession. “Is that all?” she asks simply, brows raised expectantly.

“Oh yes. And once you're finished, there's more I want to know about these,” she says, short fingernails scratching gently against one of Tissaia's more pronounced scars, “about _you._ ”

Tissaia may have been unfazed by Yennefer's very pointed request, but she stills for a moment at this, eyes trained carefully on Yennefer's face. For a few beats, Yennefer isn't quite sure what will come of it. And then, quite suddenly, Tissaia surges forward, lips parted, tongue flicking against Yennefer's mouth to demand entry. She gives it, teeth clicking against Tissaia's just as Tissaia slips two fingers easily inside of her.

It's quick, and it's far from the best orgasm of her life, but Yennefer isn't looking for anything extravagant; all she really needs is release. For once, she has far more pressing concerns than sex revolving around a naked woman in her bed. There will, by all appearances, be many more opportunities for exquisite sex and mind-blowing orgasms, after all.

She breathes slow and steady as she comes down, their foreheads pressed together, hand resting easily against Tissaia's waist. Tissaia traces her fingers along Yennefer's hip, breathing her air, eyes bright. She's firmly back in her own thoughts now, but she seems satisfied, and that warms Yennefer in ways she is altogether unfamiliar with. She allows herself to bask in the feeling for a span, listening to the sound of Tissaia's breaths.

When she finally disentangles herself from Tissaia once more, levering herself upright, her body rebels. She groans, tilting her head to the side (her neck cracks quietly), and Tissaia laughs softly below her.

Yennefer swats at Tissaia’s arm in reply, gathering her hair over her shoulder and settling herself over Tissaia’s body. Tissaia rolls to her back, and Yennefer regards her for a moment longer. Yes, she decides, that is most certainly satisfaction written across those catlike features. She warms a little as she finds that, once again, she’d rather like to steal the smirk off of Tissaia’s lips. Instead, she settles her hand alongside Tissaia’s waist and leans over her midsection, head tilted against her shoulder. She traces the line of Tissaia’s ribs with her free hand with a feather’s touch, making a thoughtful noise.

She doesn’t know where to begin.

“You said there was no Giltine, when you were young,” she observes at last, withdrawing her hand and watching Tissaia thoughtfully. “When did the Enchantment start?”

“Hm. You have me naked in bed, and you really want to ask about the history of Enchantment?” Tissaia asks, a little disbelievingly.

“Well?” To be honest… to be honest the idea of it troubles Yennefer in a way she can’t quite put her finger on. It’s the process, the sacrifice that comes with it, and so much more. She bites her lip, eyeing Tissaia thoughtfully. “You have your womb?”

The look on Tissaia’s face is answer enough, and she must know it, but she still nods, still murmurs a quiet: “I do. Although, like the elves, sorceresses of that era were only fertile in youth. All the better, if you ask me, but that’s a different matter.”

Yennefer wets her lips, emotions tangled up and uncertain. She feels her lips tug downward, and fights to school the expression. Tissaia’s hand lands on her knee, thumb gentling at her skin.

“Was there anything like it?” she makes herself ask, struggling against the old anger. She doesn't need a child anymore, has no need of a legacy: she is wanted, needed; _that,_ after all, is what she really desired all along. Still, it's hard to let go of something you spent decades chasing.

Tissaia’s lips thin, and she shakes her head slightly. “Not really.”

“Hm.” For a moment, they’re quiet. Yennefer lowers her gaze, brushes her fingertips against the largest of the more severe scars on Tissaia’s abdomen. “What would have happened to me, I wonder?”

Tissaia sighs, a long, gusting sound, and resettles her head restlessly against the pillow. “With a great deal of work, I suspect… It _might_ have been possible to straighten your spine. Not without flaw, not to perfection.” Tissaia frowns at the word, and Yennefer meets her gaze to find her eyes are dark and searching. “It would have ever been obvious to someone looking closely,” Tissaia seems to decide, lifting her hand to Yennefer’s face, fingers gracing her jaw. The right side, where once there was deformity. Yennefer doesn’t know what to make of this, but everything about Tissaia reads as tenderness, so she tilts her cheek into the touch and lets her eyes flutter closed for a moment. “They are different magics,” Tissaia adds after a span, tone thoughtful, free hand stroking Yennefer’s wrist. “Healing is just that. Enchantment is transformation. It does not so much heal as it… recreates. Most girls keep their most defining features intact, but you could become a different person entirely, if you wanted to. Hair, skin, height. There are few limits.”

“And when the art was… invented,” Yennefer finally says, returning her attention to the scarring on Tissaia’s torso. “What was to keep you from choosing to undergo it?” There’s no expectation in the question: she’s merely curious. She hopes Tissaia sees it for what it is.

Tissaia frowns. “I don’t know. Living in my own skin as long as I had? We are talking about decades, centuries, even. At some point it became irrelevant.”

“But you do hide them. Your scars.”

“Sometimes.”

“ _Sometimes_.”

“My dear, if there is a Duchess in my bed, I do not believe my past is relevant to her. Distractions such as these are best removed from play.”

Jealousy flares in Yennefer at that, and Tissaia must see it, for she chuckles again, patting Yennefer’s hand lightly. “ _You,_ however… You, I trust,” she says warmly. “And I suppose you have a right to it.”

The sudden openness catches Yennefer off-guard, makes her feel a bit like the breath has been knocked out of her. She searches Tissaia’s face for a long span, wondering. Tissaia arches her brow, studying Yennefer in return, but after a moment her lips quirk upward and Yennefer releases a breath she didn’t realise she was holding.

“Have you finished your investigation?” Tissaia asks suddenly, levering herself upright. The movement forces Yennefer to shift as well, and she finds herself nearly shoulder to shoulder with Tissaia, facing her.

Ah. “Not quite.” It takes a great deal of effort to speak the words. She swallows against the dry lump in her throat that forms at their proximity.

“What else is there to know?”

Yennefer shrugs, leaning back a little for a better view of Tissaia, fingers trailing once again to the larger scar on her abdomen, the fine white mark just above the line of her iliac crest. “Is there sensation?” she asks, running the tip of her fingernail across the body of the scar as if to clarify the point.

“Some,” Tissaia says with a slight frown. “This one pulls,” she adds, touching the scar that stretches down her bicep. “And there is one on my back that reopens at the slightest overexertion.”

Curious, Yennefer moves forward, fingers tracing across a few of the scars on Tissaia's back. One, angry and red, runs vertically down her shoulder blade. She finds a narrow white scar close to it; the skin feels thin, and Tissaia's quiet hum tells her she has found the one she spoke of. “After all this time?”

“Mm.”

“Strange, they healed so differently.”

“Different degrees of damage, different healing times,” Tissaia replies unnecessarily, craning her neck around to look askance at Yennefer's face.

Yennefer glances up at her—studies her profile, the length of her neck, the mussed plait of hair hanging down her narrow back. On closer examination, it is two plaits twisted together. Yennefer reaches out, unties the ribbon at the tail of it, and moves to slowly, reverently unravel the plaits, fingers combing through chestnut locks as she goes. She finds a tiny pin still nestled against Tissaia's scalp, where the hair twists back from her temple, and she releases it, setting it free to tumble into Tissaia's face before she moves to sweep it back again with careful fingers, behind Tissaia's ear. She shifts, settling more squarely behind Tissaia; when she leans forward to guide Tissaia's chin in the other direction, Tissaia obliges, allowing Yennefer to free the hair at the other side of her head in a similar fashion.

Tissaia's pale gaze is steady and unblinking and dark with desire as Yennefer cards her fingers once more through the subtle waves. Warmth fills her as she lets her eyes track across Tissaia's features again: down the line of her nose, across her dimpled chin. The sharp angles of her, the deep folds etched alongside her bowed mouth, the pronounced cleft of her philtrum.

“Spot anything a younger sorceress might have changed?” Tisssaia asks suddenly, voice low and quiet. It seems a strange question, but Yennefer doesn't sense any lack of confidence in it. Indeed, she might be teasing, but her face is a mask.

“No.”

“Oh?” Tissaia replies, voice lilting now. “No imperfections to sort?”

Yennefer wrinkles her brow, feels a frown pull at her features. She hates that word, _perfection_. Hates what it means for them, hates the expectation that sorceresses must be perfect, that they are not allowed to simply _be_.

“A stupid sorceress might have found many things to change,” she says at last, tone perhaps more accusatory than she intends, but Tissaia's lips twitch upward and her expression softens. “But I think I like your imperfections.”

“Good to know,” Tissaia says with a glint in her eyes.

She pivots and Yennefer finds herself yielding to the press of Tissaia's hand against her chest, reclining back into the pillows as Tissaia moves, swift and precise, settling over her body on all fours. Her hair falls around them like a curtain, the perfume of it intoxicating—vetiver, black pepper, and bergamot mingling, filling Yennefer's nostrils as she turns her face into a swath of warm brown waves. Yennefer hums satisfaction, a lock of hair gliding delicately between her first two fingers as she wets her lips. Tissaia taps a single finger lightly against her jugular notch.

When she turns to face Tissaia again, twisting a bit of Tissaia's fine hair between her fingers, Yennefer knows the heated want in Tissaia's eyes is a reflection of her own.

“You gave me a little trouble earlier,” Tissaia murmurs, eyebrows raised and pupils blown wide. “I don't suppose I can expect you to be more agreeable this time?”

“My dear Archmistress, when have you known me to be anything _but_ agreeable?” Yennefer retorts, flashing a toothy grin as she raises her hands to Tissaia's sides, fingers ghosting along her ribs.

This inspires a bark of laughter from Tissaia, who bends down nevertheless to let her lips hover close to Yennefer's ear.

“May I take that as a yes?”

Yennefer exhales a shuddering breath, and can't resist lifting her face to press a kiss against Tissaia's throat. “Yes.”

“Mm.” Tissaia returns the caress as Yennefer's fingers trace a circle around a rough ridge of scar tissue, and Yennefer's body is alight again with the touch and feel and breath of her when Tissaia's voice drops to a low husk to murmur: “ _Good girl_.”


End file.
